


Smoke Rises, Cinder Falls

by sunkelles



Category: RWBY
Genre: Cycles of abuse, Emotional Abuse, Fairy Tale Style, Familial Abuse, Gen, Physical Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-18
Updated: 2020-10-18
Packaged: 2021-03-09 03:02:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27087556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunkelles/pseuds/sunkelles
Summary: The story of Cinderella has been told a thousand times by a thousand different storytellers, but this version is a bit different than the rest. This is the story of how Cinder Fall gets her fiery justice and Salem ensnares her closest disciple.
Relationships: Salem & Cinder Fall
Comments: 6
Kudos: 16





	Smoke Rises, Cinder Falls

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. i love that snow white's evil stepmother is her bio dad so i decided to make cinderella's evil stepmother her stepdad  
> 2\. i nab a line from into the woods as a theme for this "Mother said be good, mother said be nice: that was always her advice. So be good Cinderella, nice Cinderella nice good good nice" Cinderella gets increasingly frantic and frustrated during it, so it's gotten stuck as a pre-salem cinder thing for me. also into the woods is where the idea of a "festival" came from  
> 3\. i finally got this fic finished because of the trailer! salem came into my brain and demanded it

_This is the house that built me_

_And I'm gonna burn it down_

Courtney Love Prays to Oregon by Clementine von Radics

* * *

Every story has a grain of truth tucked into the center that the whole tale is built around. Maybe the story itself is fiction, but that particle of truth can never be destroyed. Different storytellers might build their tales differently to suit their needs, but that bit of truth? It will always be there- the grain of sand that started the pearl. 

Once upon a time there was a farm tucked deep into the forests of Anima. It wasn’t the most prosperous farm, but the woman who owned it made due. It had been her mother’s farm, her grandmother’s farm before that, all the way up the line passing from mother to daughter for as long as anyone kept records. 

Our story starts with the latest daughter, a little girl named Ella. Her mother was the keeper of the farm, and her father was the keeper of the Grimm who sometimes surrounded it. The families on the farm always lived in concord, so they didn’t attract very many Grimm. Instead, they attracted huntsman husbands who liked the easy work and the steady income. 

Ella’s huntsman father, however, grew disillusioned. He was far from the city and all the conveniences that it brought, and while he was getting by- he was never getting rich. Or famous. And to top things off, the beautiful wife that he married had started to get sick. He was expected to tend to her, on top of the child. 

He never wanted a child in the first place, and now he was expected to tend to the little ankle biter. This huntsman wouldn’t stand for that long. Four years after marrying her, he left the woman to her own devices with their three year old daughter.

Then, he packed up his bags and he left to find more lucrative work. Little Ella cried as she clung to his leg, begging him not to leave her. But the huntsman simply pried her off of his leg and dropped her on the couch. Then, he grabbed his two suitcases and left without so much as a goodbye. 

Little Ella Spring was never quite the same after that. 

Her mother soothed her tears, and assured her that things would be alright. They would find a new huntsman to protect the property, and with enough kindness and determination, they could get through anything. Be good, be nice, and good things and good people will come your way, Ella’s mother promised. 

But Ella never forgot what it felt like to be abandoned. Even as her mother promised they would find someone better, that she would be safe and cared for- Ella remembered what it felt like to be left crying on the couch by a coward with suitcases in hand. 

Every time Ella looked at that couch, she remembered- and she resented. 

Eventually, her mother drew in another huntsman, a widowed father of two young girls, and promised his children a mother and a home. The huntsman was tall and blonde. His broad shoulders were always coated in armor, even when he walked the house. He never helped around the house. He never looked her way. He never asked his daughters not to tease her. 

Her mother told her to be nice to him, to be good to her new sisters. Then they would come to love her, just the way that her mother loved her. So Ella tried, just for her mother’s sake. She tried to be as nice and good as she could, because that’s what her mother wanted. 

Ella never believed for a second that this man would care about her, no matter how much her mother promised. He was strange, and distant, and never made his daughters be nice to her. Ella never believed he would so much as like her, let alone love her. She didn’t think it would matter how nice or good she was. 

Ella was often right. She was right then too. 

Ella tried to be nice. She tried to be good. Even on the days that her stepfamily made her want to scream. On those days, her mother always smiled and pulled her into a hug, and told her how proud she was that Ella was trying. It made the difficult things a little bit easier, to be wrapped up in her mother’s love. 

But then, her mother got sick. She promised Ella that she would get better, and then that everything would be fine. But the cough and exhaustion worsened, and every day her mother’s light died out a little bit. Ella worried her mother wouldn’t last the week. 

Ella was often right. She was right then too. 

Her mother died, and her stepfather turned on her immediately. He threw out almost all of her things and kicked her out of her room.

“You don’t need a room,” he says, “there’s a perfectly good place inside the fireplace.” And the girls laughed, and the man smiled. Ella did nothing but cry. Cry into her arm in the warm cinders of the fireplace, occasional burns lodging themselves into her arms and leaving her speckled with scars. 

The girls took to calling her Cinderella. It wasn’t very clever, a mocking little term because she slept in the fireplace, but these were never clever girls- these were mean girls. They never had to take power, or gain it- they were given power and decided they would use it to hurt others. 

Girls like that don’t need the smarts that others work for. 

Men like Ella’s stepfather don’t need smarts, either. They have cruelty and force. When Ella wasn’t quiet enough with her crying, or she did it in an area of the house where he could hear- well, that was always met with violence. Normally a slap, sometimes a kick, but always something that would hurt. 

“Stop crying,” he would growl, “you’re going to attract Grimm.” And little Ella muffled her tears, and went to her corner, and bit into her little arm to keep the sounds of her crying from attracting all sorts of beasts that wanted to harm her. 

The embers at the bottom of the pit burned, but Ella grew used to them. After all, it was the only warmth that she was ever going to get. 

  
  
  


For years she cleaned and stifled her tears, her insults, and her rage. Every blow was met not with a blow of her own, but her backing away to scream into her arm. Whenever she started to get mad, he would use her mother's words against her. 

“Be nice, Cinderella,” he would say, “isn’t that what your mother used to say, be nice?” Ella would bite her lip, and she would nod. That _is_ what her mother told her. Mother said be good, mother said be nice: that _was_ always her advice. But being nice had gotten her _here._ Our dear Ella was sure that her mother was either mistaken or a fool, because she could not bear to be nice to her tormentors for another second. 

Except she did. She swallowed down the anger, and the fear, and the resentment and kept on living. And cleaning. Just as she had to. 

One day, Ella was sweeping up a floor full of sand that her stepfather had dragged in after a hunt. Her stepsister kicked the dustpan as she Ella leaned down to pick it up. The dustpan flew, and the sand flew along with it- all over the ground. Every grain scattering after she swept it all up. She felt her rage build, and then the stepsister grinned as she grabbed the dustpan off the ground. 

“I need that,” Ella said, grabbing for the pan. 

Her stepsister rolled her eyes. “You’ve got hands, don’t you? Just pick it up.” Then, she walked away, dustpan in hand. 

Ella felt her rage build, but she picked up the sand as ordered. She grabbed as much as she could with each hand, pushing the grains down in rage. She held the sand in her hand, crushing so hard that she felt the rocks dig into her hand. Her anger rose, and then she felt- warmth. A strange liquid feeling, like brownie batter moving within her hand. Then, the coarse feeling of the sand shifted to something smooth. She opened her hand and inside of it was a handful of clear glass, molded by the inside of her enclosed fist. 

She experimented as she picked up the rest, honing her rage to make a whole vase of glass. By the time that she was done, she had a gorgeous bit of glasswear- and a knowledge of her semblance that even her step family could not take away. 

A trade- a skill that she could market outside of this house? Ella always knew people like beautiful things. If she could make them… then she could escape from here. She wouldn’t have to endure a second longer. At least, that’s what Ella thought. 

So, she gathered up the bits of sand that she could, and started learning how to craft it in the dead of night. She crafted glasses, and vases, and small, glass animals. She took to hiding the finished projects behind the loose bricks in the bottom of the fireplace. She had to hide them, no matter what. Her step family had always shattered her dreams. 

Word of a festival came- a great party and convention of intellects all throughout the land. The best place to find a rich spouse from a different continent, to meet up with a future business partner, or to launch a career as a crafter. So Ella shaped a pair of intricate slippers, flashy enough to showcase her skills and convince people to buy her goods. 

It would be enough to craft an image at the festival. It _had_ to be. 

The night before her step family would leave for the festival (and Ella would follow, silently and unnoticed behind) she took the shoe out from her hidey-hole in the wall. She gently moved it around in her hands- caressing it. Just to remind herself that it was there. It probably would have gone fine if her stepsister hadn’t stumbled out of bed. 

Her stepsister looked over to the shoe in awe. 

“What is that?” she asked. Ella looked cautiously at the shoe, and considered trying to hide it away. But then she decided against that. 

“It’s a shoe that I made,” she said softly. Her stepsister walked over quickly, yanking the slipper out of her hand. 

“Be gentle,” Ella urged, “it’s made of glass.” She felt like her stepsister had ripped her heart right out of her chest and was just about to break it. 

“How did you even do this?” the stepsister asked, holding it up precariously by the heel. 

“It’s my semblance,” Ella muttered. The stepsister wasn’t even listening, instead twirling the slipper in her hand above her head to watch the light move through the glass. 

“These aren’t hideous,” she said, grinning, “maybe I could wear them.” 

“I didn’t make them for you,” Ella hissed. Her stepsister smirked at her as Ella tried to grab for the shoe, coming up just a little short. 

“Oh,” she said, giggling, “did you make them to wear to the festival?” Ella glared. 

“You did, didn’t you!” The stepsister giggled as she flipped her hair. “That’s just too funny, isn’t it? Thinking someone like _you_ could go there.” 

“I could!” Ella shouted. The sister laughed, and Ella launched herself at sister, trying to rip the shoe out of her hand. 

“Father! Father!” her stepsister screeched. A groan came from upstairs, the pounding of footsteps across the top floor and down the stairs. Ella let go of her, and sat back down on her fireplace floor. She knew that if her stepfather caught her with her hands on his daughter, he would beat her for sure. 

Once the stepfather got down, he looked over at his own daughter with disdain. 

“What is so important you had to wake me up in the middle of the night?” 

“Cinderella’s been doing glasswork,” she accused, “she wants to go to the festival!” She held out the slipper for her father to examine. He snatched it out of his daughter’s hand. 

“How did you even do this?” he asked. Ella opened her mouth for a moment, then she closed it. He wouldn’t believe her, and she wouldn’t want him to know anyway. He glanced over at her. 

“I suppose I can smash it, then. If it means so little to you.” Ella felt her heart leap out of her chest. 

“Please don’t. I’ve worked on that for months.” 

“Well,” he said, almost sounding kind, “if you’ve truly worked so hard.” The stepsister’s look grew sour. 

“I want it. Don’t give it back to _her!”_ she shouted, reaching forward for the shoe. The man rolled his eyes. 

“I wasn’t going to let her keep it, darling,” he said. Then, he threw the shoe directly on the ground in front of it. The glass shattered into a million pieces, and Ella could not stop herself from shouting “no!” 

The stepsister looked to her father in confusion and anger. “But. I wanted that.” He ripped the other slipper out of Ella’s hands, and then smashed it too. The tears were wet on her face now, and he pushed his way past her to the hearth. 

“But daddy!” the girl said. 

“Hush. Daddy is squashing a bug.” The stepsister sniffled as the tears started to come, but said nothing. Her father made his way over to the fireplace.

“I know you must have more of these in there somewhere. Glasswork like this doesn’t happen with one shoe.” He dug through the area and found every hidey hole… and smashed them each in turn. When her life’s work was nothing more than a pile of sharp shards and Ella’s face was a mess of tears and snot, he turned to her. 

He did not smile, because this man never smiled. He simply stared through her as if she weren’t there. “You are nothing,” he said. Then, he turned and pointed to his own daughter, “and _you,_ need to stop waking me up in the middle of the night for nonsense. Come. We have a festival to get to tomorrow.” Her stepfather dug through the chimney and found each and every bit of glasswork she had ever done and planned to sell. Then, he shattered it on the floor. 

The stepsister sniffled, but she followed her father up the stairs. When she was halfway up, she turned around and grinned. 

“You’ll have to clean that up,” she said, pointing to the fractals of glass all over the floor. Then, he laughed as she ascended the stairs and disappeared into the darkness. Ella was left with nothing but the grief and the burning rage. With the festival starting tomorrow, she could never make up that work. She would have nothing to show for her years of effort. No way to get out of this house. 

And no hope of anything ever getting better. 

Ella dared not scream out or cry that night in a way that anyone would hear- but that didn’t stop the Grimm. Even when Grimm can’t hear your tears, they can feel your fear, your rage- your primal desire to hurt. Ella’s rage burned as bright as a star that night, and she led the Grimm to her like a beacon. 

An angry, frightened young woman who lived under a stepfather’s thumb. Who better to liberate than someone who would be truly grateful? 

Ella cried and radiated emotions as she cleaned up the shards of her life’s work. She cried and radiated emotions as she cleaned the rest of the house. Two days later, the Grimm finally arrived. And with them, came their queen. Their queen, who was _very_ interested in little Cinderella. 

Ella was out of the house, gathering water from the well. She spotted a woman out of the corner of her eyes, with pale white skin and eyes as red as fire. 

“Why are you here?” she asked cautiously. 

“I’m here to help you,” the woman said. Ella laughed as she leaned against the well. 

“No one has _ever_ helped me. You’ll need a better story than that.” The woman smiled, the black cracks in her mask growing more pronounced. 

“You’re a clever one, aren’t you?” 

Ella shrugged. “I wouldn’t be alive if I wasn’t.” The woman decided on her course of action. 

“I know about your step family, about the way that they’ve treated you.” 

Ella froze in place.“How do you know that?” 

“Grimm can feel the emotions of every person on this planet. They can see everything. And I control the Grimm.” 

“So you know everything?" she asked, sounding skeptical.

“More or less. You can think of me as your... fairy godmother.” 

“Fairy godmother?”

“A magical being who can help you get everything you want.” 

“And you think you _know_ what I want?” Ella asked, crossing her arms in front of her. She raised her eyebrow, too, just for good measure. 

“Of course, dear. You want your step family to pay,” she said, black eyes staring back at the young woman. Ella glanced cautiously at the outstretched hand. She’s seen hands outstretched in friendship before. They never stayed that way long. 

“I am not offering you friendship, my dear,” her fairy godmother said, “I am offering power. That’s something that can’t be so easily stolen.” Ella raised her right hand to gently hold her left bicep, tracing a soft circle at the skin there- a long-healed burn wound she’d gotten when she first moved into the fireplace. 

“Don’t you want to burn _them?”_ her fairy godmother asked. Ella’s eyes darkened, and her godmother saw determination settle in them. 

“Yes,” Ella gritted out. The fairy godmother held her hands primly in front of her, and then turned around to walk back towards the house. Ella did not follow. 

The fairy godmother stopped midway through. “What are you waiting for?” she said wryly, “an invitation?” Ella took a deep breath, and then she followed. Her steps before were soft and timid before, but then they grew loud and determined. Ella’s step family never knew what was coming. 

Two days later, Ella’s stepfather and stepsister came trouncing through the door, orders barked and floors muddied. Ella pretended that everything was the same. She made sure that the players took their places on the stage. 

Then, she traced an incendiary path with gasoline all through the house. She grabbed the clump of red fire dust and shoved it onto the front porch. With a single spark from her semblance to the explosive dust the whole place would go up in flames. 

As her stepfather and stepsisters slept, the girl they called Cinderella lit up the dust, the gasoline, and the whole house, finally earning her name. 

As the flames roared, the smoke rose higher and higher- gray wisps blocking the light of the shattered moon. Ella climbed the hill, soot on her brow and a smile on her face. Her fairy godmother was already standing at the top, watching the place go up in smoke. 

“I’m done,” Ella said proudly. 

Her fairy godmother nodded her head in approval. “You’ve done well with the tools I gave you.” 

Ella walked over and stood beside her. Then, her fairy godmother held out her hand to stop her from walking any further. “No. You are my disciple- not my equal. You should never stand closer than a step behind.” 

Ella’s face fell, but she stepped behind politely. Her savior smiled. The girl was learning, just as she wanted. 

“You’ve done well, Ella,” she praised. Ella frowned. 

“I don’t think I want to keep that name,” she said. Her fairy godmother nodded, ever indulgent. 

“Then who do you want to be?” She took a deep breath, and then looked down at the soot on her hands. Then, she looked back into the fire, flames dancing in her eyes. 

“I want to be Cinder,” she said, staring into the inferno, “Cinder Fall.” 

The fairy godmother’s lips curled into a treacherous grin. “I could not have picked a better name myself.” She allowed Cinder to bask in her glory for another moment, watching the pillars of the old house fall down in the flames. 

Cinder listened to the last of her false family’s screams die out in the flames. She watched as her old house burned down to cinders, all specks of light and fire dying out. She smiled blissfully as she turned to face her savior. 

“Now what?” Cinder asked. 

“Now, you follow me,” her fairy godmother said, placing a finger to her cheekbone and her thumb underneath her chin. “Then, we make sure that no one can ever hurt you again.” Cinder smiled, her teeth as sharp as knives. 

“Do you swear?” she asked. The fairy godmother frowned. 

“I do not owe you promises, Cinder.” She stood straighter, her look hardening and her voice growing cold. “I have already delivered. I can give you more the justice you desire, but it is secondary to my own.”  
  
Cinder looked guilty as she bowed her head. “I’m sorry.” 

“You are nothing without me. You had best remember that.” Cinder nodded her head. 

“Now say it. Prove your commitment,” her fairy godmother ordered. 

“I am nothing without you,” Cinder echoed. Her fairy godmother turned away, and nodded her head. 

“Follow me,” she ordered, taking a brisk step forward. Cinder followed without question, just a step behind. Following, following, following- just as she would be following her until the end of time. Cinder was her protege, after all, and must be prepared to take over the fairy godmother’s work someday. 

  
That day would not come for many years, but it would come. And the fairy godmother would finally have everything _she_ ever wanted.


End file.
